drafts of yesterday

Distant Ocean

He is like an unfinished painting,
a song with secretive lyrics
he spills a line then retracts a paragraph with his eyes;
that wide ocean of unending metaphors,
He watches and keeps to himself,
a bag full of captured moments

And I am a bird, perched on an ordinary tree
i craned my neck, yet he couldn't see;
my subtle melody, another mystery
trapped underneath the leaves
i beg for mercy from a worm
that was supposed to be my meal

there was no trees across the ocean.

Even in the negatives, I will never be cleared
or towed away in his collection of polaroids,
yet in between my words, there he is,
coloring the spaces my ink had left
filling and filling and spilling,
on my bed sheet, in my closet among the neurons in my head

- and still, trees across the ocean will never exist.